


Witching Hour

by Eternal_Cantarella



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Naruto, The Dark Knight
Genre: Assistant District Attorney Sakura, Bigotry & Prejudice, Courtroom Drama, Crimes & Criminals, Dark, Eventual Romance, F/M, Inaccurate Christianity, Jealousy, Jester Joker, Moral Dilemmas, Organized Crime, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Racism, Salem Witch Trials, Slow Burn, Witch Lynchings, i'm sorry lmao, inaccurate history, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24913537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eternal_Cantarella/pseuds/Eternal_Cantarella
Summary: She was a member of the high court in Salem. He was a criminal, a fiend. Second chances were proven to be real, as the stars aligned, and by fortuitous grace he was offered to take on the mantle of the Court’s Fool and Jester. He wouldn’t have it any other way if he could try his damndest to twist and turn to push past the limits of the rule of law, and especially in the unfortunate age of the infamous Salem witch trials, anarchy reigns.It is no matter, however. The Law stands above all.Let the trials begin.
Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Joker (DCU)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	1. Rosaries and Runes

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So, this is a Courtroom Drama based loosely around the Salem Witch Trials. Each character sort of plays an integral role (inspired by the game Town of Salem) in this story, and Sakura has to figure out who are her allies, who are the ones she can trust. The Joker is great at social commentary, as usual, and Sakura quickly finds herself intrigued by his acts. Not really a historically accurate portrayal of the trials and of those ages, it’s just for fun and fantasy. Enjoy!
> 
> My main inspirations for this story are: Witch Hunt (a vocaloid song), and the Town of Salem game.

Her knees ached, despite the cushioning of the church pew kneelers against the soft tissue wrapping around her tibia. She tried to suppress the urge to fidget and adjust her kneeling position, as she clasped the rosary tightly in her hands. She twiddled the crucifix of the Puritan cross between her thumb and index fingers, bringing it to her forehead while her elbows were propped up on the backrests of the pews in front of her. Her eyes were sealed shut, and her brows furrowed in deep concentration.

The Puritan Minister stepped forth, basking in the glory of the Lord as he stood behind the high central pulpit, raising his right hand up high, bestowing the sign of the cross upon everyone who gathered this morning. On the cushion of the ledger on the pulpit, there supported the revered holy Puritan Bible. He thumbed across its pages, carefully reciting the gospel truth in its scriptures. Its dominating, central position was by no means an accident; it testified to the authority of the Bible in the worship, the doctrine, and the government of Puritan Churches.

“We gather here this Thanksgiving… to share our gratitude for our Heavenly Father’s unparalleled showings of love and kindness to us. I take it that all of us are well this fine morning?”

“Yes, Father Alfred.”

She muttered, the cross dangling mere centimeters away from her lips. The collective voices of the masses gathered in the church sent shivers down her spine. Nothing compared to the feeling of pure unity in the believers of the Gospel sharing one voice, in song and in words.

“Do not relent, for we live in an age of civil unrest in the state of Massachusetts. The purpose of all wars, is peace. For the Lord your God is he who goes with you to fight for you against your enemies, to give you the victory. The word of the Lord.”

“Thanks be to God.”

She opened her eyes. Wide, vibrant jade eyes darted around the room. She took in the marvelous impression of unadorned simplicity, maintained at the province of worship. The place was a warm rustic shade of Salem Maple Oak, with brilliant minimalistic woodworks carved and etched into every corner, barricades of pews erected before the revered, raised altar to the divine. A polished finish was varnished on every wooden surface of the parish hall, a glossy sheen to be courteous and to dedicate a respectable area of worship to the Heavenly Father.

“Endure, my children, for we live in an age of famine and disease. And I will provide for those who wait renowned plantations so they shall no more be consumed with hunger and plague in the land, and no longer suffer the reproach of the nations. The word of the Lord.”

“Thanks be to God.”

She adjusted the white coif that hid her hair. It was frilly with cloth gathered in pretty flounces. She looked at the hourglass that sat beside Father Alfred's palm. Its grains of sands trickled down quickly, wholly at the mercy of gravity and time. She sat at the front pew, and turned her head sideways to sneak a quick peep at the crowd gathered today, seeing if she could spot familiar faces. She saw a quick glimpse of Detective James Gordon, a man who she came to deeply respect, with his children's hands snugly fitted in his. His wife, Barbara Gordon caught her sight and smiled covertly at her. The sight of their merry family together warmed and pulled at her heartstrings, and she gave an amicable nod back.

“Lift your pitchforks, and only at the right ones, for we live in an age of sorcery and witchcraft. A man or woman who is a medium or spiritist among you must be put to death. You are to stone them; their blood will be on their own heads.”

It felt like spiders had crawled on her arms, and her nerves flared at the unexpected and abrupt gruesome imagery. She quickly whipped her head back onto the Father, as if the Lord would catch her misbehaviour of inattentiveness, and punish her. She faltered on slight queasiness that she could not pinpoint the cause of. She stared out the crisscross grills of the arched glass windows. The grey light that filtered through whispered through to her like she was a divining seer gazing into a crystal. _Witchcraft._ She squeezed her eyes shut and kissed the crucifix of the rosary wrapped delicately around her hand. 

“I will set my face against anyone who turns to mediums and spiritists to prostitute themselves by following them, and I will cut them off from their people. The word of the Lord.”

The dread that pooled in her stomach was like the brutal stab of a hand full of claws, like the mittens of a panther, who heaved his arm back and delivered a swift, perfectly timed hook down. She felt guilt from sins, sins that had never _ever_ even crossed her mind to commit, bubble through her gut. _Lord, why do I feel this way?_ She gripped the beads tighter and prayed harder. The whisperings and rumours of the threat of witchcraft sowed nothing but discord and distrust amongst the Salem community, whose relations between villagers were already extremely strained. The people of Salem were neurotic paranoiacs, and it was a matter of time before people turned their backs on each other. She was no different. At the very least, however, she had the mind to be self-aware.

“Thanks be to God.”

She mouthed the words out, her voice unable to truly utter that sentence with her voice a crack barely above a whisper.

“And to bestow upon the community of Salem, the everlasting peace and harmony as children of God, we shall love our neighbour as we love ourselves. We proceed with the breaking of the bread in this giving season of thanks, symbolic of our sharing nature and community spirit.”  
  
Church wardens quickly disseminated at their stations beside their pews. She quickly clambered to her feet and turned to the right, accidentally stumbling straight into her childhood friend, Ino, who had accompanied her to the parish during this holiday. They were queuing in line to receive the Holy Communion. Ino, lost her balance slightly, and whipped her head around, slapping Sakura in the face with her long ponytail to glare at her.

_“What on earth’s your deal, forehead? Can’t you wait in line?”_

She whispered irritatedly, rattled by her clumsiness. If she had to fall, she could at least try not to drag her friend down with her. Sakura laughed nervously, knitting her brows and scratching her head, apologising quietly. _Curse myself for being a maladroit bumbling mess._ Ino’s icy stare sent waves of judgement flooding through her system, brows raised, daring her to tell her the issue at hand.

A church warden cleared his throat at them, while holding his chalice of bread.

Realising that they were holding up the line, they quickly hobbled forward, as gracefully as they could in their aprons, which was like a couple of indignant children guilty from being chastised by their elders. They ignored the reproachful gazes from onlookers and the people queuing behind them. Sakura groaned, dryly stretching her lips, _great start to Thanksgiving._

  
  
  


###

  
  
  


The autumn was dressed to the nines this season, more so than the previous years. The weather was becoming more extreme and turbulent, more unpredictable. The autumn donned the most vibrant hues, trees dressed in their gold and scarlet carnival clothes. Those sylphlike trees swayed with the strong gales of autumn, their warm toned roots intertwined intimately, like lovers. The skies were marbled with streaks of pink and orange, blanketed with thickets of grey clouds. Faint odours of wood and smoke seemed to flit over the town, along with the heavenly aromas of roast turkey and pumpkin pie.

The two of them sat square in the center of the plaza, deep in the heart of the town of Salem. After the sermon delivered by the Puritan Minister and Head Priest, Alfred Pennyworth, the crack of daybreak tore subtly through the skies, signalling the start of the town-wide Thanksgiving festival and potluck. Sakura and Ino looked around as people manned their booths and rickety stands, made poorly of straws and unrefined wood. Strings of festive, triangular flag decors hung from streetlamps to stalls, heavily complementing the pretty trees with earthy red and olive fabric. Children were running around the village, and people were either queuing at the stalls or congregating in their social circles, sharing dishes they’ve prepared for the occasion.

They sat by the alabaster stone fountain that was slightly mossy, with a treasure of coins thrown into it. Sakura was surprised that no one had really stolen from it yet. Perhaps it was against the Puritan legislature in Salem to do so, and that was somehow enough of a deterrence to the majority of people here. Another gust blew violently against their silhouettes, and they clutched at their shifts of fabric fastened round their necks, and tightened their arms around their waistcoats. Sakura shivered and her teeth clattered together at this abrupt change in temperature. She clutched at her coif so it wouldn’t fly away. Perhaps this was the coldest autumn they’d seen in the years they’d lived here.

“Y’know, it’s really nice to see people in town so jovial and happy together.”

Ino turned her head and mused at the bazaar, twirling at her hair. Upon hearing this, Sakura was reminded of the foreboding tragedy and hopelessness befalling this town like a plague, and her vibrant, glossy jade eyes dulled.

“Yeah, well don’t get used to it, Ino. After today, it’s back to shutting our doors on each other.”

Sakura grumbled gloomily, bringing up her packed basket wrapped in a pink weave cloth. Ino pressed her lips in a thin line and her brows twisted.

“Oh yeah? And how do you know for sure?”

“You’ve seen it yourself. It’s been like this for years. Mothers are losing their sons to pointless battles with Native American neighbours and French settlers. Pointless bloodshed that does nothing to improve our fear of starvation and disease.”

Sakura stared down at her basket, gripping lightly at its handles. Ino knitted her brows and her face fell a little, slightly hurt by her pessimism and in sympathy for her best friend at the same time, knowing full well the burdens of the people placed on her shoulders that made her like this from time to time.

“And not to mention the mob’s doing terrible things in this town every night-”

“You don’t have to be a Debbie Downer, do ya? Today’s one of the only holidays we Puritans really get to enjoy.”

“You know it’s the truth.”  
  
Sakura mumbled lowly, sulking to herself. She unwrapped her weave cloth to reveal a quilted straw basket. She lifted its lid, and scooped out a bowl of mashed potatoes and another bowl of bread and celery stuffing after. Ino gawked and stared down the dishes.

“It’s not much, Ino, I know. But you can’t blame me, the situation with the economy has been pretty bleak and it looks to be getting much worse.”

Ino abruptly stood up, and brashly waved a hand in her face.

“Save it, forehead. All I hear are excuses. You’re not the only one suffering from _the economy._ ”

She said the last two words with an ogre-like mocking voice of gobbledygook, waving her arms around exaggeratedly, ridiculing her best friend’s pessimism. This was _really_ unlike Sakura, and she would stop at nothing to try to cheer her up. Her friend brought a hand to her mouth and laughed into her palm, jest bubbling at her cheeks as she fluttered her eyes shut with joy.

“And I reveal, _my_ culinary masterpiece... my _chef d’oeuvre..._ ”

Ino articulated exaggeratedly, lifting the covers off her basket and unravelling a savory dish of pumpkin pie with a side of cranberry sauce.

“Ta-da!”

She sang out loud―Sakura couldn’t resist ogling the food amorously, with its golden crust baked to perfection and an orangey-brown center stodgy paste filling glistening a delectable and flavourful hearty gold. They were already pre-sliced delicately into equal portions. She felt her mouth watering involuntarily and she licked her lips.

“ _Ha!_ You have nothing to say for yourself.”

Ino laughed and held her hands around her hips, leaning back in condescension.

“Wh-What? Mashed potatoes and bread stuffing are good too!”

Sakura stood up finally to match Ino’s height, narrowed her eyes and slammed a hand on her table, wobbling it slightly, and pointed a finger accusingly at Ino. The fire was at long last finding its way back into her system. Ino decided to provoke her further, poking her and treading the line to see how far she could go. It was a fun game for her.

“Well if they’re that good, guess I won’t need to share my _delicious_ pumpkin pie with you!”

“ _Argghhh!_ Fine, you win this time, you _pig._ I’ll get you next year!”

She stuck a tongue out and closed the distance between her and Ino, staring her dead in the eye. She clenched her fist tightly and they quivered slightly under the force as she angled it beside her jaw. Ino did not relent either, as she crossed her arm tightly and leaned into her. This electric feeling was commonplace in their friendship, and it sure was addictive. Their quarrels and challenges to each other brought them to life. As on and off as their relationship had been, they could never truly give each other up. They could never quit each other.

“You know- _mmf_ , I think she really won this time. You’re out of luck, Sakura.”

In between bites, the deep and masculine muffled voice came through with bits of food dropping out of his mouth. Sakura widened her eyes and inhaled sharply, turned her head to give a quick glance at the source of the voice, almost having to do a double take as she hadn’t expected to hear that voice that day. Her realisation was extremely delayed. Ino beat her to it, evidently, as she began grabbing at the food in his hand and tackling it away from him.

“ _Bruce Wayne?_ What on earth are you doing here and who gave you the permission to eat _my_ pie?”

He swatted away at Ino’s arms like she was a fly and backed away slightly, patting at his clothes, the white ruff atop his collarbones, as if she had dirtied them upon coming into contact with him. Sakura’s brow twitched slightly, unsure of how to react in this situation, and whistled incredulously.

“Yeah, seeing as she’s such a _pig,_ it’s obvious she’d be good at making food that she devours so monstrously.”

“ _Hey_ ―Sakura! Who’s side are you even on?”

Bruce sucked at his fingertips, licking at the last remnants of Ino’s delicious pumpkin pie on his.

“And you call yourself a girl when you can’t cook? I mean, I guess I can’t expect much out of you with that brash, unladylike behaviour.”

This was the last straw. Sakura knocked a fist against the table and sent a spoon flying. She walked forwards and a grim smile stretched at her lips, all light and amusement lost from her eyes.

“Oh yeah, _Wayne?_ And it took you what, five and a half years to complete a bachelor’s degree in Harvard? That’s pretty pathetic, even for the golden boy of Salem. Frankly, we all thought you died.”

She deadpanned. Bruce backed up slightly at this change in demeanor and laughed it off with the dignity of a rich socialite like the one he was. This smugness and condescension drove Sakura mad, and she wanted nothing more than to wipe that dastardly smirk off his face.

“Calm down, woman. No need for personal attacks-”

“Shut it. Don’t wanna hear it. Care to explain why you’re here?”

Sakura bristled at his patronising tone and demanded an answer, glowering at him lowly. Bruce Wayne leaned in slightly, lowered himself beside Sakura’s ear and whispered. This playboy persona he put on _seriously_ got on her nerves. She would _never_ fall for his impudent charm.

“Ah, and that, I’m afraid Sakura―is none of your business.”

_Oh how her blood boiled._ She reeled backwards in disgust, her nose pinching, and drew her arm back, ready to burst as she hooked a right arm where he stood.

Nothing.

She stared at the man who seemed to flicker a step behind with wide green eyes, looking up seeing things pass by in slow motion as she missed her hit, landing forward slightly. She stumbled on the spot and he caught her arm.

“Careful where you send those little missiles.”

That shit-eating grin was back on his face again. He nodded and tipped his pilgrim, rounded flat topped felt hat at her, disappearing as quick as he came into the crowd. Sakura gaped and stomped her foot against the ground, prying her hand away from where it hovered bitterly back by her side, standing dumbfounded as she was made a fool. Begrudgingly, she proceeded to groan and wail as she dug her fingers into her closed eyes. _Curse that little bastard._ Ino tried to coax her by putting her hands on her shoulder and sitting her back down.

Sakura was mortified and flushed red from being talked down like that, especially by none other than Bruce Wayne. She clutched at her head and tried to tear at the hair that hid under the ruffly cloth, planting her face into the wooden tables benches they sat at. Her decorated coif was the only vanity she could afford to show right now, clearly over-compensating. Ino was at a loss for words and stood up looming over her, her face contorted in a grimace and her eyes narrowed. Her hands were a hesitant fumbling mess as she tapped at Sakura’s, not before wrenching them away from her head.

This action caused Sakura to pull her coif backwards away from her head, pulling it off slightly and revealing a crown of thick, straight and glossy pastel hair. They spiked forward slightly, framing around her face. Sakura’s eyes widened and she hastily pulled her coif forward and tucked her rosy locks underneath it, securing it tightly in place with a swift tug at the ribbon fastened beneath her chin. Ino sat back down and stared at her in light interest, leaning forward and resting a head on her hand.

“Y’know Billboard Brow, people are gonna think you’re bald from how bad you try to hide your hair.”

“Oh shut it pig, it’s easy for you to say.”

Sakura rolled her eyes and sat both her palms onto the table. She started pulling at a slice of pie and scooping a spoon at the mashed potatoes. She then palmed disappointedly at the back of her neck, at where the length of her hair would end if she hadn’t worn this piece of fabric. Her eyes became downcast and she sighed. Ino snorted.

“Is Miss Sakura Haruno really still insecure about the length of her hair? Come _on_ woman, you’re one of the most eligible bachelorettes in the country.”

Ino smiled lightly as she took a fork and waved it in her face, jabbing it at the air in front of her. She had to disguise her compliments under a snarky jab after all.

“Save it, I don’t exactly have long luscious blonde hair like you. I don’t need you to make me feel better.”

Ino rasped and tilted her head backwards in exasperation.

“Come on you’re not still hung up over that little rumour we heard when we fought over Sasuke? Besides, you’re way out of his league now. How about your parents’ efforts to matchmake you and Bruce Wayne? I mean, as much as I despise the man―I’d still support it, y’know.”

Sakura chewed and looked at her unamused, her eyes half-lidded at this half-baked, hare-brained suggestion. She bit back in a sarcastic tone.

“As much as I appreciate your approval, it would never work out.” 

“Why not? He’s totally your type, isn’t he? Broken, devilishly handsome, and emotionally unavailable.”

Ino stared at her, daring for a response. Clearly a snarky rude and offensive dig at Sakura’s love life, it was meant to be a humorous statement but Ino’s delivery was ultimately flat and derisive, expressing ridicule as she stretched her lips into a wry smile. Her eyes coldly regarded Sakura. Ino only really wanted the best for her at this point, and wanted her to break the cycle of misery she always seemed to fall into and entrap herself in. Sakura wanted desperately to be offended and startled by this accusation, but she couldn’t bring herself to, for she couldn’t be surprised by a truth she had already realised on her own, spoken a long time ago. Sakura took in a breath and sighed, brushed her accusations aside and let them go, darting her eyes away, then downwards, then back at her friend.

“C’mon Ino, you really think I could stand the guy? Much like you, I always found him to be pretty intolerable, and besides-”

Sakura grabbed Ino’s face and turned it in one direction. She jammed a spoonful of mashed potato in her own mouth with the other hand. She spoke out loud with her mouth full of food.

“-I’m not exactly the one on his mind either.”

The both of them were greeted by the sight of Bruce Wayne making a beeline for a certain someone in the crowd. He approached her with a smile no one had really seen the man wear before, it seemed almost genuine and not totally shit-eating, and he proceeded to tap her politely on the lower back, taking his hat off. She turned around and the most stunning smile graced her features, the apples of her cheeks round and full and blossoming with joy upon seeing him, and her eyes shone blue dancing in crescent shaped smiles of their own.

_“Rachel Dawes._ Huh.”

Quite possibly the most beautiful woman in the village. She held both her hands to the sides of Bruce’s arms, laughing radiantly. Her long brown hair formed elegant tendrils and spilled down her back in gentle waves. She wore a pretty pine green petticoat that suited her and fitted her snugly, very femininely, exactly like how a lady should be expected to dress.

“Who would’ve thought he’d remember his childhood sweetheart after this long?”

Ino looked on with unadulterated interest, uncaring if they had caught onto her staring. Sakura sure enjoyed days like these where they could just gossip about stuff that didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, without a single care in the world. It was fun to let loose and catch up with the village gossip from time to time. Rachel proceeded to laugh and placed a hand on his chest, bright and radiant, clearly emanating with great joy and spark upon seeing her old friend again, after so long. She was practically glowing. And Bruce Wayne could do nothing to hide the swelling in his chest that showed in the way he tilted his head downwards and grinned foolishly. Even playboys have a soft and delicate side.

“Isn’t she kind of… like this? With the Chief Judge and Prosecutor of The Magistrates? Your absolute favourite person in the world?”

Ino held up her pinky finger to Sakura. Sakura scoffed sharply.

“Favourite person? Harvey Dent? I guess that’s one way to put it. You know I think the man’s an absolute knobhead.”

Rachel Dawes was someone Sakura came to know fairly well, as a fellow member of the High Court. Rachel was Salem’s most esteemed escort, and was pretty involved in most matters from all walks of the town, and even out of the town. Name any connection and she would probably have it. It was because of this that Rachel had become a valuable member especially in matters regarding espionage. It was no wonder that Bruce had fallen for her, she was a fine candidate for he who the town unofficially dubbed their prince. Sakura could never guess why he was so well-liked by the village anyway. 

“We’ll just have to see. Our poor Rachel has to choose.”

Ino snapped out of her daze and intrigue in the pair and focused her attention back on Sakura.

“Anyway―that’s besides the point. This has nothing to do with the fact that you can’t hide your hair forever.”

Sakura swallowed. She shut her eyes and her lips twitched a little, wanting to forget the memories and push this conversation past them. She put her hand on top of Ino’s, resting her palm on it.

“Ino... you know better than anyone else why I do it.”

Ino felt the emotion stir in her eyes, and her jaw tightened. Of course she would.

“Sakura…”

Ino didn’t really want to think back, and dig up graves long buried. Some things were just best left as stones unturned, a rough impression at the back of one’s mind. She couldn’t control it however, and she cursed her over-active mind, as she drew back into it, sifting through her memories.

_“Ino! I just found out Sasuke likes girls with long hair!”_

_Her long, coral waist length hair swayed as she walked and blew in the wind. It was so shiny, straight and… ethereal._

_“Well, I guess... we’re rivals from now on.”_

_They both held onto the red ribbon. Their hands gripping onto each other as if this was the last time they ever were to do so, the ribbon getting increasingly entangled in their grasps._

_“She’s a witch!”_

_“Hag!”_

_“Devil!”_

_Her hair was wrenched in place by an iron fist. Her scalp burned as the force tore at it._

_“...break the power of all curses, hexes, jinxes, voodoo...”_

_The clattering of a woodcarver rang through her as she sniffled silently. Ino could never forget those quiet noises as everyone cheered._

Ino clasped her hand around Sakura’s tightly and rubbed a thumb over it gently. They stayed like that for a moment, having not talked about this since the actual incident itself. Ino was the only person Sakura felt she could really trust in this accursed village. No longer wanting to wallow in self-pity, Sakura rubbed away the solemness in her face and lightened up her eyes again.

“Where were we? Let’s get back to chowing down.”

They giggled boisterously and continued to dig in.

  
  
  


###

  
  
  


Sakura padded silently around the cold spruce wood floor of her humble abode, not wanting to make a ruckus as her family members upstairs were preparing to rest. Her efforts were rather futile, as the wood squeaked under her weight. She stepped over a metal nail that stuck out the floor planks slightly and reeled her foot back slightly from the acutely cold surface. While her family was, by no means, considered poor in the town of Salem, their house was relatively modest compared to the rest of The Magistrates and the governing Wayne family. Of course, it was worth noting that the majority of Salem could barely afford a simple terrace, let alone a two storey gable house like hers. 

The floorboards on the inside were a deep chestnut mahogany, along with its furniture. The cutting on the edges of the wood was rough, for her family thought it needless to spend too abundantly on artisan craftsman furnishings smithed by the most skilled hands in Salem. The walls were painted with a generous coat of white paint, sparsely adorned with ornate paintings. She drew open a drawer in the living room to reach for a cotton scarf only reserved for members of the family headed out at night.

She pried open her door silently and winced when she heard a creak. She stepped out and closed it behind her with as little sound she could make. She felt a crisp shiver running down her spine, much like a bolt of electricity. The air was frigid and biting at her face, and she tried to minimise the sharp frosty pierces at her cheeks by tugging at her scarf round her face. Winter seemed to be arriving much earlier this year, and she looked around at the telltale signs that signalled so. Leaves were shedding fast, dropping and gathering in large pools and puddles raked beside each household, and the sun set turning the skies dark with columns of grey clouds earlier each day.

She stepped out into the gravelly path that led out of her house, her spirited eyes darting around shiftily. Leaves cracked against her foot along with the sounds of footsteps against gravel beads. It was dangerous to be alone on the streets of Salem at this time, and she prepared herself mentally to brave walking along the terraces to the High Court on account of her summon tonight. There was no telling whether you would run yourself into a stray bullet from the mob that overtook the town when day turned to night. Those thugs were running the town into the ground with organised crime. Nightfall was imminent, the light of day draining away and twilight was soon to befall. There was a clear, purple-tinged grey that fell as a film tinted over the whole town. She quickened her pace, gripping her envelope of paperwork that she required for her profession even tighter.

As she passed by each house and terrace in Salem on the dirt path to the court, she studied them absently. She had always thought that Salem’s architecture, while minimalistic and conservative, was hauntingly beautiful. They were layered on with bricks piled neatly on top of each other, with a rigid geometrical shape where they always jutted out at its top half, right above its draw frame. It gave an impression of a larger building block supported by smaller ones at the bottom. They had walls topped with gables and canopies that extended not far, but barely beyond those walls. Perhaps most strikingly beguiling was that the bricks were painted with a matted sheen of an eerie, but beguiling, and alluring, ebony black. This gave it an elegant and almost… spectral, phantomly glow.

She caught herself and smacked her face gently with her bare hands, the sound of skin slapping muffled by the shawl covering her ears. _Let not Father catch you thinking such dastardly things of this hallowed village._ She continued walking, not wanting to look at the houses further. She also did not want to allow herself to be enchanted by morbid matters, let alone think them to be beautiful. Things to do with spirits were nothing but pure _evil._ She tried to look no further, but the warm and welcoming light that sieved through the window of one particular terrace begged otherwise.

She felt her active eyes wandering up to the second floor of that house, its windows enveloped in a criss cross pattern for its window grills, perhaps a trademark of Salem architecture. She saw a shadowy figure watching her from behind the grills, and she felt the compulsion to turn her head to acknowledge them. But as she did so, she saw a face. And what materialised was a profile with the most deathly scowl, staring back at her.

Window panes cracked against the sill. She flinched and squeezed her eyes tightly from the loud noise. She looked back again and saw the white curtains violently drawn shut against the criss cross grills. Her brows knitted and her eyes wavered, and she looked down deep into the gravel dirt path she trudged on. She felt… somehow sorrowful. It felt like everyone else had built new walls with her so lonely on the other side. She was barred away from them, even as she desperately banged her fists at their doors to let her in. She no longer felt at home in her own town, forlorn and lost like a deer in the place she grew up in. One that she once held nothing but happy memories of. She remembered her conversation with Ino. Right after the festival, everything went back exactly to the way things were before. There was no harmony, there was no community. It certainly did not feel good to be the one to say ‘I told you so’ in this matter of events. She could not bring it in her to stand over the shoulders of something as solemn and desolate as this for victory.

With the situation in Salem becoming even more bleak, the wars outside the doors kept raging on, people in Salem were turning their backs on each other. People blamed anyone but themselves for their miserable situation, for it was hard to accept that a once prosperous village could no longer live in access and was merely scraping by at this point. You could be blamed for causing the demise of Salem, ranging from allegations of witchcraft to pledging allegiance to the Mafia. People just refused to take accountability for their actions and sought to bring vengeance and misery, to exert a perverted sense of justice on anyone for wronging the village.

Tensions rose even more every day, and it was like a musical string being pulled at both ends, giving out a sound so high pitched that the string would break at any given moment. She loathed how everything felt so strained. She loathed how everyone was so suspicious of each other, and were so quick to point fingers or push the blame at each other. Neighbours were just so… distrustful of each other. Gossip and rumours salaciously slipped under everyone’s hats with an indecent efficiency, and what matters that were discussed were absolutely horrifying, deplorable even. How fast an entire community or herd of people condemned an individual was even more terrifying.

It did not sit right to live in a town like this, especially when she was in a position where she had a direct hand in how things ran here, where she could possibly do something, anything. People were frightened for their lives, like cornered animals. She was pensive. She brushed her thumb against her envelope and brought it up to her face, her eyes still downcast. She remembered the glowering scowl that looked down upon her from that window, one that made her feel so alienated, one that felt like the tyranny of the majority.

_Perhaps the evil that lurked in this town wasn’t one of witches or mediums. Maybe it’s…_

Flesh thudded against each other.

“Oh dear me, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, no it’s fine... It’s probably my-”

The both of them were so engrossed in their envelopes that they failed to notice either of them walking into each other outside the gates of the Townhouse building where the High Court was located. They both recollected the pages that fell out of their hands onto the floor. She gazed up, and they both locked eyes. She saw a pair of cold, pale blue eyes. The only thing that distinguished them from Ino’s icy blues were the wooden frames of eyeglasses surrounding them. Sakura pressed her lips into a thin line.

“Crane. Nice to see you well during Thanksgiving Season.”

“Sakura. Glad to be acquainted with you tonight.”

He looked down at her with a condescending head tilt, his expression impassive. She tongued the inside of her mouth irritatedly. She then looked down and her attention was caught by the thick stack of papers he held in his hands while he slid a few pages back in, at the top of the envelope in red ink was his name written in cursive. She supposed it would do no harm to engage in small talk with the scholar.

“That’s a, uh, huge stack of papers you got there.”

He instinctively brought his envelope closer to his body and crossed his arms, which she interpreted as a defense mechanism, possibly to stop drawing her attention there. His cuffs caught onto each other slightly. He took a deep breath and sighed.

“Enough of the pretend pleasantries, Sakura. We both know how we really feel about each other.”

_Okay…_ Maybe she shouldn’t have even attempted it at all. She groaned inwardly. She suddenly decided that she hated this town. Despite all that she thought earlier. _Nope, all sympathy down the drain._ She rolled her eyes at the man and stuck her hand out. He took it hesitantly, an inquisitive look on his face.

“Good. Because frankly I’m tired of acting, Crane.”

“Good.”

He shook it firmly, still looking down his nose at her. His eyes were piercing, wide and bulging, and she once chided herself for thinking them hypnotic. She detested this man with every fibre of her being. It occurred to her that she didn’t like very many people in this town at all. But that was besides the point. Jonathan Crane held a special place in her heart in the list of people she didn’t mind seeing burnt at the stake. Jonathan Crane was a snob. A snob and a prick. He was the very definition of privilege. He loved waltzing around with his pompous ass, and his nose stuck high up in the air. Even though he had never worked a single day in his life to achieve any of the epithets and titles he had held to his name.

“By the way, it’s _Doctor_ Crane,”

They let go of their hands. She drew it back very quickly, almost as if in disgust.

“But of course, you already knew that.”

He leaned in slightly and smiled smugly at her, his plush lips pressing against each other. Sakura clenched her teeth slightly.

“Yeah, I knew how your _daddy_ paid your way into Harvard’s Medical Degree programme and _stole_ my rightful spot.”

She spit at him venomously. He laughed lightly, to himself, looking down. His jaw shifted slightly, its defined chiseledness catching her eye.

“That’s what people say when they aren’t good enough, isn’t it?”

She was seething at this point. He looked back up at her.

“It’s always _‘blame the rich people’,_ isn’t it? To bring us down to _your_ level?”

He gesticulated and waved his hand around slightly. Sakura felt a broth of anger boiling at her insides. Her eyes lit with a fire stronger, burning at its jade core.

“You’ve never worked a _damned day_ in your life, who are _you_ to talk about merit and hardship?”

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you.”

They had a final staredown with each other. Sakura was the first one to break eye contact. Crane always made her feel inferior. Most of the people of The Magistrates did. Crane happened to be one of the newest additions to the elite amalgamate. It would do her no good to get so worked up before the court hearings that night. She stepped away from him and turned to face the gates, walking towards it slowly.

It was one of the highest luxuries Salem could afford, a well built security structure. It encircled the Townhouse like a square cage, and joined together at an intersection forming the Saxon double gates. They were constructed using solid steel for a traditional wrought iron gate appearance; its decorative spear finials formed an imposing arc that felt foreboding to anyone who dared enter, especially to offenders of the Puritan Law. They were powder coated black with a smooth satin finish. Crane held the gate open for Sakura and closed it behind after he entered. They continued walking, side by side, in silence.

They looked up at the Townhouse building in the distance. The square cage of the Townhouse building was located in the center near the plaza, surrounded by many shophouses and local-owned businesses. It was the wealthier district of the town. Its architecture definitely stood out like a sore thumb, with its opulence showy and obvious to all who walked past. 

It shone ivory white and it was three storeys tall, with a porch canopy shading its entrance, and functioning as a balcony at the same time for the second floor. Circular columns of pillars held the canopy up, extending further up the second story to hold up a Pantheon-like isosceles wedge that extended as an overhang, triumphant in its declaration of Puritan justice. What was most special about the Townhouse, however, was perhaps the belltower that stretched higher than any building in Salem, that attempted to reach the high heavens. It was practically built like a Cathedral. The High court would be located in its second storey.

Sakura stopped at the entrance of the building once they had arrived. Jonathan Crane turned and looked at her, raising a brow. He gestured an open palm towards the door, pulling it open.

“After you.”

“I thought you wanted us to drop the act?”

“Well, my father did always teach me to be a gentleman, to any lady.”

She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. She looked at him hesitantly, then she obliged, the darkness swallowing her wholly along with the feeling of queasiness.


	2. Like A Dog Chasing Cars

By the flickering yellow of the candle light, the hallways were dark, the shapes of furniture discernible but the colours muted to a warm rich maple if you squinted. It reminded her of the hearth in days gone by, when family and neighbours would bring the firewood and they’d warm themselves before the bare flames, basking in the glow and praying not to be struck by stray embers. They stepped before the candlelight that framed in an arc of brilliant gold in the mild darkness, lit golden and warm around the large wooden doors in a gothic arc, etched with beautiful square carvings and patterns in the wood. The High Court.

Footsteps echoed in from behind the door with a muffled sound. They both looked up from their positions. They heard the sound of the brass core of the keylock clicking, a subdued metallic ker-chunk sound as the deadbolt spring was twisted to its unlocked position. The door creaked open.

“Evening, Jonathan. Sakura. You’re here early. Come inside you two, we have a long night ahead of us.”

Investigator and Commissioner of the modest Sheriff’s County Shire in Salem, James Gordon invited them into the court. Before proceeding, Sakura addressed him warmly with an affectionate smile and a hug, always happy to see the wise detective. Gordon returned her affections without hesitation. Crane acknowledged him with a curt nod.

They stopped and waited in silence for the other members of the court to arrive. They weren’t the only ones in the room, as they heard the clinking noises of metal chains and loud, yet muffled rowdy whispers reverberating throughout the room. Crane leaned against a wall withdrawn from Sakura. She looked at him from the corner of her eye. Even in such dim lighting his doublet seemed to be made of exquisite material. Her eyes were drawn again to the stack of papers in his hands.

Gordon went around lighting the large cylindrical blocks of wax candles around the High Court, their central wicks charred from reuse and curled amidst the pools of drying wax, re-ignited with a newly made crater at the top and burned with a steady, yellow flame. Sakura squinted from the sudden resurgence of light into her eyes.

Her attention was then brought to the large structure that hung from the steel poles jutted down from the ceilings, almost tent like. Sakura narrowed her eyes at the structure in slight confusion. She realised that they were thick red velvet curtains, that were extremely old, dusty and out of use, repurposed and brought out again this night, that hung in generous folds round the central vastness of the High Court. It seemed as if they had put together a makeshift stage, or even a miniature theatre. Whoever had designed the set, clearly took inspiration from big top circus tents she’d seen in drawings from other parts of the country. There was slight movement underneath, slight ripples sent down the billows of curtains. It seemed that the mild chaos and confusion with the whisper-shouts and murmurs came from beneath. It surely was peculiar to be brought to a viewing of this in the High Court.

Detective Gordon approached Crane and Sakura and walked them round the burgundy velour curtains. While they were old and worn out, they did give off an air of antique and grandeur that was unlike anything she had really seen before. It felt… cultured, inspiring and artistic. It was a sort of novelty and creative freshness she was not used to. It was imposing and grand in a different way from the architecture of the Townhouse, with a poise of the dramatic, theatrical and thespian in the best way possible. It was the mystique and trickery of performance that was alluring, beguiling, and drew all of them in, piquing the interests of those including even the likes of Crane. Stage magic. Slight anticipation bubbled inside of her.

“Commissioner Gordon, are we here to watch a show or something?”

Gordon smiled and huffed to himself at Sakura’s wonder. He couldn’t help but feel a strong paternal instinct, a tenderness to protect her innocence and delight, no matter how jaded this town got.

“Not exactly.”

They walked past a side of the tent that had a large rip and frayed down the middle, from improper storage. All of them turned to look inside in the gap, to take a peek, with the spirit of curiosity and nosiness that could not be suppressed.

They passed by the stage slowly.

They saw movements inside, with dimly lit candles. People were walking around and fumbling about, arguing with each other over matters that seemed arbitrary to the outsiders. Hushes could be heard, being thrown around harshly at each other. There was a lot of movement.

But what caught her eye was a single man. Sat calmly on a wooden crate facing the rips in the curtains, a stance of dominance, his palms flat against his thighs, staring straight ahead with his lips pressed together. His hair was combed back, flailing wildly behind.

He looked… off. 

Those lips, they extended far beyond what was normal, and the sides of his cheeks seemed... _mutilated,_ almost. They were maimed, and his face was heavily disfigured. His skin was ashen white, glowing with an unearthly sheen. Streaks of flesh colours can be seen in patches around his face, as the chalky paint that glazed over his skin was splotchy and crude, as if a child had done finger painting on his face. His eyes were smudged, blotchy jet black rings, an inky mess. They howled with despair as the black sludge dribbled slightly down his face, as if he were weeping himself a stygian river. His forehead was heavily creased and wrinkled with horizontal, flesh coloured lines running across, and his face was marred beyond repair. His lips were painted red with the paint smearing all the way to his cheeks, all over his scar ridges. A permanent grin embossed his skin. He was a twisted, mangled clown type character. Warped beyond recognition.

He was frightening.

He stared up with a threatening glare, daring whoever walked past to look at him. His chin was tilted downwards, and his charcoal black eyes cranking upwards almost out of his eye sockets. His piercing laser gaze landed directly on her. It held a weight she could not bear.

She gasped and flinched, switching her gaze elsewhere. 

She looked down at his hands. They were bound by large, rusted copper metal ringlets bolted in place, with sizable chains wrapping loops around them. It was obvious, whoever this was, he was a dangerous man. Even in a position of submission, when he was sat there, supposedly idle, he commanded an attention, a pure dominance and an air of warning that he needed to be watched. Those hard eyes of his were still active and incredibly intense. Like he never did stop thinking.

“No name. No other alias.”

Gordon spoke, with a wary age.

“His clothing is custom, no labels. He’s a ghost in this town.”

Sakura stared at his green vest, and purple striped pants. He wore a hexagonal-patterned dress shirt.

“Locked up for counts of arson. We couldn’t trace any other records of his existence in this town.”

Their attention was now on Gordon.

“Committed crimes of willfully and maliciously setting fire to property of the Wayne’s, and the Maroni’s. Didn’t try to avoid incarceration by the Sheriffs. Neither admitted to nor denied accusations.”

She felt even more unsettled by all this.

“Calls himself the Joker.”

Crane smirked, licking his bottom lip as he turned to look at him.

They circled round the arch of the table of The Magistrates. The long wooden table curved, with its concave side facing the center of the room. At the center of the table was a raised podium, a position saved for the man with the highest authority in the room. Gordon had left them to their own comfort in favour of escorting the rest of The Magistrates. Crane took the seat at the left corner, while Sakura deliberately decided to sit at the furthest end of the right corner, to place as much distance as she could between herself and Crane. Crane looked mildly amused by this.

Crane had managed to grab a small candle Gordon had lit on the way to the table. At each seat reserved for members of the High Court, there sat a brass, elaborately decorated candelabra that could accommodate a single stick of wax. This was so that each member had sufficient light to do their paperwork and record key information, which was important in their job scope. They heard the sound of the door clicking and even more mild chatter joined in with the hushes that piped behind the curtains. _Took them long enough._ She stared on as Crane lit his own candelabra, passing the measly flame from the candle he held, onto the scraggly wick protruding from the lob of wax rested in its holster. He then proceeded to stick the spare candle into the candle holster of the seat next to his. Sakura continued staring at him, but he was wilfully ignorant of her apparent gaze on him as he avoided her eyes and continued to pull out his stack of paperwork.

She huffed in annoyance, in utter disbelief that he was petty enough not to offer his help, and to pass the candle on to her to offer even the slightest bit of generosity and thoughtfulness. She practically snatched the candelabra off her desk and pushed herself off the table, making an unpleasant scratchy noise as she had done so, as her chair dragged backwards against the uneven wooden floor. She stormed towards the seat next to Crane’s and tipped her candle to touch the modestly luminous flame sprouting from the holster. She brought it back to her and held it there for a few seconds. Crane turned his head toward her and offered a smug, insincere mockery of a smile. She tongued her inner lip and forced an overly saccharine smile onto her face, and without warning tipped her candle over Crane’s hand. The hot candle wax dribbled everywhere onto his paper and poured onto his hand.

Alarmed, he let out a short yelp and howled, fanning his hand vigorously at the sharp sting. No matter how harmless the act was, unforeseen infliction of pain or humiliation on a coworker, no less, was absolutely uncalled for. This was an act of hostility.

“You little _wench-_ ”

“Prissy little gentlemen like you have no place spouting foul words like that, _Doctor._ ”

She turned her back on him and strode back to her seat, feeling quite satisfied with herself. His eyes were rigid and hard, as he kept his watch on her returning form, vindictive. His jaw clenched. No one ever dared try embarrassing a member of the Crane family. _Keep treading, dear Sakura._

Gordon returned to the Magistrate table with the remaining members. Sakura braced herself for the incoming flurry of plastered on smiles, and prepared herself to kiss up each other’s asses. People started approaching the corner of the table from her side. She felt a hand patted onto her head roughly, which conveyed to her an air of superiority rather than being an act of affection or tenderness. Who _else_ always found the need to remind her that she was but a measly subordinate. She griped silently. 

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite Assistant Prosecutor.”

Crafty attempt at disguising his authority under the veil of a well-crafted compliment to his _favourite_ subsidiary. She stared up at him through her lashes, not able to bring herself to look at him, trying hard to remain impassive at this moment. Through his hand atop of her head, she looked at his blond locks, then her eyes connected with his metallic blue ones. She cracked a well-rehearsed, corporate smile. It was a requirement of their job to know how to do so. Each one of them had mastered their fake smiles, and she was no exception, right down to the wrinkles around her eyes. He stared down at her expectantly, his slightly parted lips and crinkled eyes a clear indication of this.

“Salem’s White Knight. Our Chief Judge and Prosecutor. Good to see you, Harvey.”

Pleased with her greeting and acknowledgement of his role and power, he removed his palm from the top of her head, moving on to address the rest. Of course, she knew exactly what to say, she knew exactly what to default to. She was nothing but a public servant, with little to no power, despite her seemingly prestigious title. She nodded upon seeing the ever-graceful Rachel Dawes smile warmly at her. If anyone had mastered the art of making even the fakest of smiles seem genuine, it would be Rachel. Even Sakura felt her heart flutter slightly at Rachel’s warm and welcoming greeting, it felt like some misplaced longing to be accepted, granted, as the wonderful likes of an upper class lady like her was generous enough to bestow her signal of approval onto you. You were acknowledged as a part of their social circle. It was nice to feel included. Her eyes widened as she caught herself, and she proceeded to chide herself for thinking that way. She had to remember not to lose herself in this political world of games and chess.

If she had to praise Crane for one thing, it was that he was genuine enough with her to drop this act of pretense. She even gained some newfound respect for him as he had requested so. She saw a little tiny flame from a distance, and squinted her eyes at it. She saw a head of blonde hair poking through the cracks in the curtain, and she felt the painful tug of her cheeks as she waved at this unusual appearance from the queen of flowers herself, her piggish best friend.

The sound of a cleared throat caught her attention. She turned her head quickly, and who her eyes landed on caused her to fumble about quickly and gussy up her appearance. She stood up promptly and stuck a hand out sheepishly.

“Governor Timothy Wayne! I-I’m humbled to be in your presence, Sir. What brings you here today?”

The middle-aged man reciprocated her handshake and showed her a distinguished and courtly type of composure, as well as delightful manners that were worthy of respect. She expected no less from the governor of this part of Massachusetts. He leaned in impishly.

“Same reason you’re here today.”

They both shared an amicable laugh. He had a type of diluted Scottish accent.

“I hear that you’ve been lucky enough to catch the return of my nephew, Bruce?”

“Oh, yes, indeed he was… lovely.”

She shifted her weight about her position slightly, and palmed her hands against each other.

“Oh I do trust that he is. After all, I raised him like he was my very own son. I would never forgive myself to not care for his well being, not after…”

The governor trailed off. Sakura nodded at him, completely understanding.

“It’s okay, Sir. You have a tough job, and I do believe you put in your full efforts for Bruce himself. It shows.”

Timothy Wayne was clearly ecstatic at her words of affirmation, and thanked her enthusiastically before he moved to take his seat. Sakura looked at him and wondered how easily manipulated an emotional man like him could be, especially with running an entire town. She supposed with this hierarchy of the elites in Salem being marked by corruption and nepotism, his years in the office may not exactly be of his own clear volition. Especially since it was worth noting that he was in fact the brother of the posthumously famed Thomas Wayne.

“Well, I suppose you wouldn’t mind _lovely_ old me’s company to chaperone you this evening?”

Sakura whipped her head around at this intrusive voice as he slinked sensuously into the empty seat beside hers. He had cornered her into this isolated section of the table. She narrowed her eyes at him and gripped her papers tighter. Somehow, she felt suffocated by his presence. He had been eavesdropping.

“Bruce Wayne. What the _hell_ are you doing here.”

“Oh y’know, doing my new job.”

Sakura gaped at him. First it was Crane, and now _Wayne?_ This was ridiculous. _As if_ her job needed another reason to make her feel even more miserable. These new additions to the team were preposterous. It took a serious amount of rigour to work to this post and for these two to just show up overnight was absurd. At this rate, the High Court was going to be overrun by inept, incompetent bumbling buffoons.

“Listen, I don’t know exactly how qualified you are to take this job, but paying your way through this, or even sucking up to your uncle, isn’t going to cut it. This is _serious_ business.”

“I know, and I’m pretty serious about it.”

He slurred nonchalantly and grabbed the candles passed down to him to light his candelabra. He had that foolish grin curving at his lips again, his downright flippant attitude and almost deliberately inappropriate humour was pissing her off. She bristled. _Was that the smell of… liquor?_

“What in tarnation Wayne, are you drunk? Stop being a fool, this isn’t something you play around with.”

“And you ought to stop assuming so many things. Your ego will be your downfall, Sakura.”

The playful edge around his words was still there, masking something more, dare she say… ominous. It was subtle, but she did catch it. She could be overthinking it. She bit her tongue, unable to think of anything more to argue against him. Bruce turned his head and looked at her for the first time that night. His facetious grin was still there mocking her.

“You’re always so hostile and belligerent to everyone.”

“I wouldn’t be if you didn’t give me a reason to.”

.She bit her lip.

“Think hard about this for a moment. Have I really given you a reason to?”

For a moment she thought she saw the smirk completely wiped off his face. What remained was a straight-faced expression, devoid of horseplay and larks.

_“Remember who your enemies truly are, Sakura.”_

And as fast as that smile disappeared, it resurfaced again, his trademark classic playboy smile set in place. She wondered if it even happened, if she had completely imagined that. He was no longer looking at her. She looked down the row of Magistrates. Where Harvey Dent usually would sit looking down on everyone, which was the central raised podium, was replaced with Governor Timothy Wayne. Dent didn’t look _too_ happy about it, but he had no choice. He was not used to not having the highest authority in the room, after all. Rachel sat beside Dent, not far away from Jonathan Crane, as Dent wasn’t shy about showing off his arm candy and beloved sweetheart. Sakura caught Bruce staring, for a split second, at the way Rachel tugged at his arm too. The only empty seat left was beside Bruce, reserved for James Gordon.

Sakura thought back on Bruce’s final statement to her. _Was_ her agitation towards Wayne truly justified? She supposed there were many times in school he had utterly humiliated her, given that they had a feud slightly akin, although much less hostile, to that with her and Jonathan Crane. They had always clashed. They were from entirely different backgrounds. Their friend groups had issues with each other. Her brows knitted in confusion at the row of people encircling the stage before her. She didn’t know why, but she felt like something was brewing. Especially with the type of climate Salem was heading towards. She felt nervous all of a sudden. She gripped her papers once more and bit her lip. And this suggested to her, that she indeed had to pick the right allies. 

  
  
  


###

  
  
  


Ino stepped out through the tiny crack in the torn fabric at the side of the tent. She held her candleholder up, careful not to let the curtains catch fire. The tent was gushing with excitement and nervousness as they all rushed about for the time had come for them to make a debut with their performance. She looked back inside the velour curtains.

“You know, I hope we’re not doing the wrong thing here.”

She waited for a response as a man trailed behind her, scoffing.

“What, unlocking the shackles on the wrists of a deranged criminal? Unleashing the wild dog on the most important people in town?”

He bent down and looped his head under the heavy curtains, freeing himself from that claustrophobic space that is the backstage.

“No, we’re absolutely not doing anything wrong at all.”

He deadpanned.

“Your unneeded penchant for dry―and actually unfunny―humour is always appreciated, John Blake.”

He twisted the large circle of keys round his index fingers, hearing clearly the sounds of the whispers behind the tent and the giggle of the large brass keys clinking against each other.

Ino turned her body to give one last look at the crack between the curtains. She made sure to hold the candle far away from her so that her long hair doesn’t get caught in the flame. In the dimly lit backstage, she squinted her eyes to catch the green haired man face the main entrance of the tent, cocking his head sideways to give his neck a loud crack. His face didn’t show any real expression at this point in time, except for the incessant licking of lips. He opened his fists into widened palms, reveling in the fact that he was, for once, unbound and free, then he scrunched back his fingers one by one as he turned around to look for something. He carelessly picked up his coat, and then he pulled on and donned his vibrant purple suit. He gave himself one final stretch as he laced his fingers behind his back and pressed downwards. Once he was all loosened up, he tugged at the lapels and collars of his trenchcoat, not before stepping forward ominously, signalling he was ready for showtime.

John Blake started walking forward, leaving Ino lagging behind slightly. She ambled forward a little quicker, trying to catch up to the man. He whistled absentmindedly.

“It’s unfortunate that even as Salem’s ordained Jailor… I had no real say in keeping him under our absolute custody and supervision.”

Ino pondered over his musings.

“I suppose if I had the choice I would love to lock him up for good too. But of course, we always do have to listen to the law. _That_ is more absolute than even our confinement forces.”

Blake sneered derisively.

“What a joke.”

They were nearing the table of Magistrates.

“These people know absolutely nothing. Disconnected from the experiences and dangers lurking amongst the commonfolk.”

Ino huffed. She had to deal with this snideness from him on a daily basis. She looked sympathetically at Sakura, nearing her side of the table, and she was returned with a haughty pair of raised brows staring suggestively at her and her boss. She groaned and rolled her eyes. They stopped beside the table.

She looked up and finally, Commissioner Gordon had spared his attention to the small audience gathered there tonight. He had been the one who was tasked with demanding the Salem Jailhouse’s bail of the Joker, on behalf of the main governor. Of course, he did so reluctantly, being the main task force of detectives investigating into his case. But the law was above all.

He stepped in front, capturing the attention of everyone with as much conviction he could muster. Ino noticed that he always did have a hard time getting people to treat him seriously, despite being quite transparent and courageous. He cleared his throat.

“Thank you all for coming tonight on Governor Wayne’s summoning.”

Timothy Wayne raised his hand up. A light smattering of applause could be heard. Sakura gestured to Ino, who stood beside her, and tried to whisper to her. Ino bent down.

“Fancy seeing you here, Pig. Think the Governor’s gone a little bit… in over his head?”

“Who knows… Billboard Brow.”

Sakura observed that Bruce Wayne stirred a little at this comment, but otherwise remained unaffected. Gordon raised his voice slightly, to maintain everyone’s attentiveness still lay on him. Jonathan Crane rolled his eyes and took out a stick of cigarette and lighted it against the candle, then held it against his lips to take a puff.

“By law, written by Puritans who colonised this place for decades, if we had a governing party that ruled for longer than fifteen years, the political system calls for checks and balances to make sure our Governor and High Court are constructively criticised-”

Sakura’s interest was definitely piqued by this. She raised a brow.

“While we have representation from the underprivileged, who in this case is of a criminal background. He will serve as a bard with the license to make sharp criticisms. We will do this to uphold Puritan tradition out of respect for our customs.”

Harvey Dent interjected.

“With all due respect, this seems a little… over-the-top and unnecessary, Gordon. And is it really wise to hear out a criminal?”

“Unfortunately, I do not make the rules here, Dent.”

Gordon quickly jabbed back at the outspoken Chief Prosecutor, his brows furrowed and his posture stiff. The governor turned his head towards Harvey Dent, and gave him a pointed look, direct and unambiguous in his cutting eyes as he dared question the authority. Harvey Dent’s puffed posture retreated slightly, having been reminded once again of his place in this courtroom on this day.

“Perhaps it may actually do you some good to listen to he who is wise enough to play the fool. The fool as critic of the world. The jester’s baton is not only entertaining in his patron, but also in offering criticism and advice no less clear for being couched in wit―something _you_ ought to open yourself up to, _Dent._ ”

“Gordon, you really want to start this now, do you? Could I remind you-”

Harvey Dent’s jaw was obviously strained, as he restrained himself to stay in his seat and from standing up. Not many people had the gall to stand up to him, and even less people had what it took to get a differing idea and opinion through that thick skull of his. Rachel Dawes put a hand over his chest, trying her best to diffuse the situation and hold him back. He grumbled in his seat, while Rachel rubbed his arm soothingly. Sakura brought a hand to her mouth impishly, eyes wide from the confrontation. She had never seen Gordon go off on anyone this mercilessly before. She noticed Ino sniggering slightly at the implications. Gordon seemed miffed, his lips were pressed into a straight line. He decided to ignore Harvey Dent.

“If I have no other questions, I present to you the Court’s fool and jester. With a flair for the theatrics, he is the fool as goad to the wise, and challenge to the virtuous―the Joker.”

Gordon stormed off, clearly vexxed, and took his place in the seat beside Bruce Wayne. Sakura squinted her eyes at the stage presentation before them. The sliver of a crack in the curtains, the entrance of the theatre, was illuminated by multiple torches that extended forth in a wide walkway. The entire courtroom was enraptured in pindrop silence for the first time that night, no bustling behind the curtains and no arguing amongst the court members. Everything was still.

Anticipation was a nervous kind of energy.

_There is no terror in the act of dying, only the anticipation of it._

Everyone held their breaths, the spectral balls of energy within them convulsing and quivering under their isolated systems geared towards reaching their states of equilibrium. The maximum disorder, the repressed need for wanton destruction.

_And yet, why Sakura? Why is it that to you… Anticipation is a pleasure in itself?_

Sakura shivered. Closing her eyes under the feeling of unease. She could never place a finger on it. Neither could anyone else.

_And so they shall begin to find the answers to it._

_In the show that could bring them to peace, or watch them topple over themselves in their own destruction._

It was a double edged sword, after all.

A low, disjointed laughter echoed from behind the curtains, mocking and ridiculing every single one of them.

_“Ah, haa ha ha oo hee haa ha aha…”_

There was no humour in that laugh. Just a dry, expressionless delivery. The curtain had a small ripple sent through it, as plum purple gloved hands grabbed at the seams of the crack.

“And I thought they called _me_ the uncivilised one.”

He slowly stalked forward, out of the shadows, revealing himself in his elaborate arrangement of dress and ensemble. Light gasps could be heard when they saw his ghoulish, marred face. Harvey Dent, however, remained unimpressed. The Joker had a rich, sort of dark violet structured suit that made him seem to have a much larger and more squarish build than Sakura had remembered seeing in the tent. His facial muscles were pulled down into a brooding sulk, while he turned his head slightly to the side and stared forth at all of them, in mock disappointment. He looked absolutely ghastly and disfigured as he pulled a face under all that make-up. It reminded Sakura of the theatrical frowning mask of tragedy.

“Now where do we begin…”

He fished a little marotte scepter with a wooden carving of a classical jester’s head out of his suit pocket. He began throwing it and then catching it back in his hand again lumberingly, his mouth popped open slightly in wonder, as if he cared not whether the marotte actually landed in his hand or not. He turned his head back to the audience, his long, unkempt faded green hair whipping along with his head movement. He swiped his tongue against his bottom lip, then licked at the scars beside his mouth.

The shadows that were cast on him as the white candle light along the walkway bounced upon his figure were frightening. It encircled him like a spotlight. He was tall, and seemed much more than a man, and the candles along the walkway lit up his face from the bottom, making the black sludge around his eyes appear to devour deep into his eye sockets even more. He looked like a real ghoul, a mere pale white face glissading across the floor like a wraith.

“You may know me... as the guy who uh, _committed arson,_ ”

He cleared his throat, lifted both his hands to his sides and drew quotation marks in the air with two fingers while he uttered the last two words, and rolled his eyes afterwards. 

“The guy sounds like some kind of bored, washed out comedian addicted to smoking. I suppose I wouldn’t blame him if he wasn’t paid.”

Bruce Wayne commented and joked. Sakura noted that Bruce Wayne seemed to have been paying an unusual amount of attention to the man before them.

“Isn’t that right, _Co_ ― _mmish?”_

The Joker looked in the dark audience and squinted his eyes, craning his head to spot Gordon in the line-up. Gordon, in his cross-legged stance, pressed his lips together, unamused, and stretched his cheeks in reluctant acknowledgement. Sakura noted that he had a very erratic… lilt to his voice that made him seem like he had a few screws loose. It was nasally too, like a traditional carnival clown. She had yet to decide to conclude whether his persona was real or all just an act, completely intentional. His idiosyncrasies seemed too frightening to be pure eccentricity. He was clumsy. But way too mechanically clumsy. Sakura bit her lip at this. There was a grace to his ham-fistedness. Just like there was a method to his madness.

“I have to reprimand you folks on something…”

He walked forward, the sound of his floppy dress shoes which pointed upward echoed against the floors. His cheeks pulled sideways like how a disappointed parent would to their child. He was cross. He looked up, the whites of his eyes showing to the audience.

“Why on _earth_ would you try to ruin the _fun,_ by taking a peek at our… act, before the magic even begins?”

He looked actually baffled, his lips slightly parted. He was looking in the general direction addressing the entire audience initially, but like a magnet with the weight of a boulder, his gaze snapped and latched onto Sakura. He stared at her almost… dangerously. She felt a lurch in her stomach, similar to the one she experienced when her eyes connected with his earlier. She definitely felt threatened. He was not a man to be trifled with, and it was easy to forget that under the guise of this… clown show he put on.

“A performer _never_ wants his tricks to be revealed.”

He darted his tongue out, swiping it across his bottom, mangled lips like a serpent. He looked at her with his eyes half-lidded, almost in expectancy, his gaze patronisingly mumbling the words _‘capiche’_ at her. She gulped and swallowed, nodding her head. Whoever he was, he got off on getting this reaction of fear out of people. He _thrived_ on the fear of the unknown, the element of surprise and unpredictability. It was no wonder that he was particularly peeved at her peeking inside. Satisfied, he moved on from her to address everyone.

“Now. As you all know, I am your ordained, daring and… _political_ jester,”

His sing-song voice fluctuated with random inflections. Sakura noted out of the corner of her eyes, that Rachel bit her lips together, evidently unsettled by the man. He then swung his arms around his side in a small circle, almost in a bubbly jest. They then returned back to the front of his body, seeming to be _trembling_ in excitement.

“Which means… _I_ have the power to ah, mock―and _revile_ ―even the most _prominent and powerful,_ without penalty!”

He darted his little scepter out, and zoned his focus back in to land on Governor Wayne, and like a magic wand he sent out an imaginary jolt of magic, letting a pointed burst of air out of his pursed lips in a campy sound effect, _pfffffffft!_

Ino turned to whisper to John Blake.

“I think you were onto something. He does have a thing against the rich and important.”

He scoffed in response.

Slight murmurs could be heard amongst the audience. Sakura turned her head to observe the Governor. He was taken aback by this brazenness but maintained an apprehensive smile. This _was_ his idea after all. Harvey Dent was not pleased at all at this implication. She knew he hated to hear criticisms. But perhaps, she pondered, he could soften the blow of a critical comment in a way that prevented a dignified personage from losing face. Humor was the great diffuser of tense situations.

“Since we’ve got these ah, _pesky_ little self-introductions aside…”

He sighed, seeming genuinely annoyed by this, tonguing along the scars at the side of his mouth.

“Our operation is small. But we do have a uh, backstage crew, which is _highly invaluable._ Which one of you _fine_ gentlemen would like to help introduce my _te_ \- _am_?”

He squished his fists and leaned back a little, bending his knees in excitement. He scanned his eyes across the audience. He snorted upon seeing Harvey Dent halfway out of his seat from leaving, with Rachel Dawes trying to coax him to stay.

“Don’t be shy, fellas. How bout our _golden boy_ Bruce Wayne? Heard you were back in town. What if I _told_ you my assistant was a _pretty lady?”_

“I wouldn’t know about that, let’s see her.”

Bruce Wayne replied, sounding tipsy and inebriated, clearly not really having any intentions to leave his seat, comfortable where he was. He gave a simpering yet challenging smile back to the Joker.

“ _Ah_ of _course_ you wouldn’t know, busy hookin’ up with the ladies arent’cha, _Brucie-boy_?”

“How _dare_ you assume that of me?”

He blathered back loudly, not really talking with much substance, pointing an accusatory finger back at the Joker. Light laughter rang round, but Rachel Dawes merely looked at him, not a smile gracing her lips.

Governor Wayne stood up, dragging his chair lightly, a sheepish smile on his face. All eyes were on him. He patted his black brooches slightly, dusting it. A light applause was heard and Rachel Dawes cheered out for her longtime friend’s uncle. Sakura pinched her nose bridge, somehow coming to the conclusion that this would end up humiliating the old man. She supposed it wouldn’t be so bad to find the humour in such a situation. Bruce Wayne hadn’t seemed to react at all this entire time, his eyes on the man in the make-up.

“ _Ah,_ Mr. Timothy Wayne. What a _gallant_ man you are, arent’cha? You put all these young fidgety _laddies_ in the back to _shame.”_

The Joker gestured and showed him an open palm to encourage him to come down to the stage. The governor jogged on there, not wanting to keep people waiting. The clown leaned back and gave him a once-over with narrowed eyes. He smacked his lips together, making a puckering noise.

“It’s the first time I’ve actually-ah _seen_ the governor of this town up close. Is the Wayne Manor a little too… _comfortable_ for you to leave the house, and walk the streets?”

The governor reached the stage and stilled nervously as the jester wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He fretted slightly, not knowing how to answer him.

“No matter, let’s introduce our prop designer.”

He whistled with his index finger and thumb rounded against his lips. The crowd clapped, albeit a little unsurely.

“You guys may be a little… _apprehensive,_ meeting him―he’s native.”

He whispered to the crowd, leaning to them with his hands cupped around his mouth, face contorted in an expression denoting one of awkwardness where his brows knitted and his teeth clamped against each other in a grimace, as if he were divulging a little secret, as if he hadn’t actually said that loud enough for everyone to hear. The crowd went tense. Sakura frowned. She did not like where this was going. The room swelled at this point with an unspoken truth commonly known by everyone in the room. The weight of guilt and denial, and the push-and-pull of blame. 

Sakura looked at Jonathan Crane, and he had but a dastardly smile warped on his face. She seethed, wanting nothing more than to punch it off his face. She noticed that Bruce Wayne, as much as he was trying to hide it, was affected by this, as his jaw was clenched. She looked back on the Joker. How _dare_ he make light of a subject like this.

He gestured to the curtain in a come hither motion, and a man pushed his way out of the curtains. He also had face paint. Except, it was white chalky greasepaint painted across his cheeks in multiple blocky lines. Sakura scowled, gritting her teeth in anger as tears threatened to break at her eyes. She squeezed her eyes and looked away after her eyes landed on his headgear, a feathered war bonnet fashioned by the male leaders of the Indian Nations they’ve ravaged and pillaged. This was _wrong._ He wore a robed garment as well. He was a bastardised caricature. The Joker and the governor inched closer to the man, the governor looking increasingly confused and worried.

“Timmy, how bout a _magic trick?_ We’re going to make our _friend_ here disappear.”

Timothy Wayne nodded in assent. The clown asked for his hand and placed the jester-headed marotte into his palm. He proceeded to close his hands to wrap around the governor’s closed fists, his hand fitting slickly around the slim purple and black rod. The jester’s wooden-carved head with a medieval fool’s cloth hat and bells shook about, the jingling sound stark against the silence of the room. He rubbed over the governor’s hands, warming them up with his purple gloves. He bent over and blew his wrist once, then whispered a chant over them. Then he lifted his hands up three times. 

“Your land _belongs_ to us…”

He lifted it up once, rather crassly.

“Oh, and your resources too. Those are ours.”

He lifted it up a second time. Timothy Wayne was visibly perturbed and finally attempted to pull his hand away, but the Joker’s yield was unrelenting. He looked him in the eye with a dangerous glint, daring him to pull away. The governor stilled, rooted in fear, his eyes paralysed by staring into the jester’s.

“And last but _no_ _t_ the leas-t, your freedom of choice!”

He lifted it up a third time. Sakura gripped her papers and was about to stand up, but Ino had a hand on hers reassuringly, her expression solemn. The Joker forcefully rammed the governor’s fist into the man’s head, knocking against his skull with a crack. Sakura looked away and gave an expression of pain, her eyes shiny and her mouth stretched downwards in a glower.

Flesh thudded against the ground. Gordon shifted in his seat, his palm pressed against the table, unsure whether this was supposed to be part of their act or not.

“Ta―daaa! He’s _gone!”_

He gruffly exclaimed as his crewmate fell to the floor, his voice grating like sandpaper. He gave the audience an expectant look and jazz hands, as if he truly had performed an impressive trick. The man’s body landed behind his curtains, his body largely obscured by the velour shades with only the bottoms of his feet poking out of the cracks. Everyone watched in horror. Ino and John Blake fidgeted and were about to leave their positions. Gordon looked over to them, catching his mustache between his teeth. John Blake had half a mind to lug the Joker back into his cage. He murmured to Ino in a low voice.

“That was part of the act, right?”

Ino hesitated.

“Right, but I’m not sure if he had used the agreed amount of force...”

The Joker turned his head erratically at the crowd. His eyes were wide in confusion, his jaw hung agape, expecting a response. All he got was silence. His lips quivered slightly and he stuttered. He started with a high pitch, his lilt sounding crazed.

“Wh-I don’t _understand._ This is… _what you all wanted?_ Right? Where are all your cheers? We can’t… _stop_ the show now.”

He turned to look at the governor who was mortified, and the jester stick was broken into two under the force of his fist when it connected with the man’s skull.

“This is sick…”

Harvey Dent mumbled under his breath, yet was loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

“Y’know, this is what you _Wayne governors_ always say right? The only _good_ Indian is a _dead_ Indian. This is what you want isn’t it, _lil ol’ Timmy?”_

He nodded at the governor, sashaying slightly around the spot, clearly revealing that he did not care if he got an applause from the audience at all. All he cared about was getting a reaction out of all these folks. To get them to think, to get the gears in their minds turning. If he could do that, he would have succeeded. All he wants is to send a message. Under any _twisted_ means necessary. Sakura realised this. And he attacked them where it _hurt._

“He’s exposing the true horrors done unto the natives and our fighters. Done by none other than… _us._ ”

Sakura breathed pretty soundlessly, to no one in particular. Bruce, the Wayne heir, remained pretty stoic for the most part, as stoic as one could be upon having their family name being called out front and center like that. Sakura could have sworn she saw the corner of his lips twitch a little bit.  
  
“Drag him off, fellas.”

Timothy Wayne walked off with a dazed expression on his face as he watched the body being dragged behind the curtains. He sat back down quietly in his seat. The jester in his ghoulish makeup trudged forward slowly, shifting his hand around in his pockets. Sakura started paying more attention to him. He… was important. She figured that much. Whether it was good or bad for Salem, she hadn’t managed to. He licked his lips, gliding his tongue against them languidly.

“You see… it’s _easy_ for you and your, uh, _self-inflated_ senses of importance, to decide who to kill, who _is_ to kill―When you don’t even have to lift _a finger_ to do so.”

He shook his head.

“When you don’t _realise_ the loss _incurred_ from everyone involved. Well, have you _figured_ it out ye-t? Does it _feel good_ to be the one actually doing it?”

He smiled, baring his teeth at Timothy Wayne, and the audience members, swaying a little to the side. Sakura shivered. He looked absolutely awkward and unnatural in his smile, trying to imitate their social niceties.

“And look at the _consequences_ of your actions. Your townsfolk live in _fear_ every day, of retaliation attacks from those you’ve _violated…”_

His posture was crooked and bent at the hip, his hands in front of him, giving off the impression that he had nowhere else to place them from sheer restlessness due to his excitement in sharing his tirade.

“It’s _no wonder_ you’ve got so many _backstabbers_ in this accursed town. Salem’s going _craaaazy!_ It’s only a, uh, _matter of time_ before you show them your true colours, _unfortunate-ly.”_

Rachel Dawes backed up a little bit, making a loud noise with her chair squeaking against the rough wooden floor. This caught the man’s attention. He shifted his gaze onto her, eyes widening as he acted as if he was stupefied, like he was unable to think properly upon seeing a lovely dame like her. He touched up his appearance, combing his hair back with his hands, as if that did anything to improve on his ugly, hideous wreck of an appearance. 

“ _Hello beau_ ― _tiful._ You look nervous…”

He stalked forward, like a predator. He scrunched his face in pity. He walked all the way up to the table. John Blake said something out loud to not step further than where he stood, and the clown stopped at his boundaries before the table. Harvey Dent grabbed Rachel’s arm to drag her closer to him. However, the clown managed to work around a loophole in this rule and bent forward to get up in Rachel Dawes’s face. He was intent on making the audience members feel as unpleasant as possible. He licked his lips, chewing absently.

“Is it the _scars?_ I understand how ah, frightening they look, and I’m so _terribly_ sorry about that.”

He pointed to his face, musing for a moment before he continued. She was slightly frightened, and unnerved. But she seemed to relax slightly under his very accommodating tone towards her.

“Wanna know how I _got’em?_ I had a wife, _beautiful,_ like you. However, she attracted the wrong attention. She was _deep_ in with the sharks, and the mob. And one day, they showed up at our house.”

She pressed a hand atop of Harvey’s. Her cowering expression somehow became diluted, to one of sympathy. Her facial muscles relaxed a little bit. Jonathan Crane’s ears perked up at this story and it clearly intrigued him. John Blake and Ino shared a look, never once having heard his backstory. The Joker’s eyes twitched as he looked up at the ceiling at each recollection, emanating a sense of endearment mixed with betrayal. Sakura narrowed her eyes. Could she really trust the man? And anything he said?

“They tried to take her, and _me being_ her... lover, I tried to protect her. I _shielded_ her from them. They said that I was real funny lookin’. Said I was a real _joker_ . They took a knife to my face, laughing as they did it, and carved my face, _like this.”_

He licked his inner cheeks and turned his head left and right, jutting his jaw forward, to show off his scars. Harvey Dent’s anger could be seen rising, and the tension felt by the audience members soared through the roof.

“And guess what,”

His expression darkens and he takes in a deep breath, his nose flaring and he looks up. He stuck his tongue out again as he exhaled. He rounded his hands up nearer to his face, they were tense in exasperation, trying to emphasise his suffering. His voice fluctuated with pure anger and wrath, a sound of pure despair and desolation.

“ _She can’t stand the sight of me._ In return, she _repays_ me, by leaving. _Leaving_ with the men who disfigured me for life. Now I see the funny side, look who’s always laughin’ now-”

“Listen, I don’t know if we should really be listening to a crazy person like this. He’s obviously threatening my lady and very clearly terrorising her.”

Harvey Dent rudely interjected, standing up and pushing the Joker’s shoulder to back him away. The jester lifts both his hands arm by his side in submission, to show he did nothing wrong and meant no harm. He tilted his head to the side innocently, cocking a shoulder up. This served to make Harvey Dent angrier. Rachel stood up and put a hand over his chest, rubbing it soothingly.  
  
“Harvey… Don’t worry about it. I did not feel threatened. In fact I think he’s been doing a good job and is brave to share his story with us.”

Harvey Dent looked confused as he furrowed his brows and looked between his lady and the clown. Rachel Dawes smiled sweetly and reassuringly back at him. The clown had a jeering look on his face and leered knowingly. 

“You think I’m _crazy_ now, do ya? _Alright Harvey._ Why don’t you come down here? _No,_ no I _insist.”_

The Joker shook his head exaggeratedly. Dent tried to refuse, feeling very comfortable at his request. Rachel tugged at his doublet and egged him on, encouraging him to join his act. Timothy Wayne sent his piercing gaze to him, signalling for him to head down. He huffed, storming down reluctantly to the front of the table. Like the Joker did with Timothy Wayne, he had his hands round Harvey Dent’s shoulders. This time, however, it felt more dangerous. Especially after their little exchange earlier.

“You call me crazy, but have you _ever thought_ about how… _sane,_ you truly are in your ah, _ivory tower,_ hmm?”

Harvey Dent tried to shrug his arm off of him, as he had his hands nailed to his hips in his signature stance they’ve always seen at court, but the clown remained intrusive. Acting oblivious to the obvious social cue that he was ill at ease. He gussied the man by ruffling his hair, and tugging at the ruffs around his neck. The jester smiled patronisingly at him, baring his yellow teeth, sticky and slimy.

“How… _alone_ you truly are. And remember this―Being alone drives _anyone_ crazy.”

They walked closer to the stage.

“Harvey, do ya happen to know _why_ you and your… _friends_ decided to pillage and murder our neighbours?”

Harvey refused to walk any further, putting his foot down, the Joker’s tug unable to bring him forward. They stood dead in the center of the room.

“Those Indians are _savages_ and _witches._ And it is our duty to rid the wilderness of such evilness invoked by the devil.”

Harvey Dent jammed a pointer finger at the ground, no longer able to fully mask his contempt. The Joker opened his mouth in mock concession and knitted his eyebrows in consideration.

“Ah, _of course,_ I totally understand. You make a fair point. It is completely _justifiable_ to ah, _kill_ them. And _take_ their rightful land because they practice a little… _magic.”_

“Are you questioning the Puritan Law? Witchcraft and magic is the most heinous crime after idolatry and we have stopped thousands of practitioners from continuing their evil deeds.”

The Joker nodded absentmindedly, wanting to snort.

“Yeah... and care to bring up some figures? How many... _fathers and sons_ have you sent to die for your, uh, _righteous_ cause?”

Harvey Dent was silent and seething, his fingers gripping at his hips with a drilling force. His lips narrowed and tightened together and he stared at the clown with his large cold, blue eyes. They sent a warning to the man. Sakura winced hearing this, gripping her papers. This was… _wrong._

“It matters not how many have died. They ought to be happy dying fighting for the word of the Lord. As any Puritan should be. It’s the highest honour any man could reach.”

His voice was final. It quivered under the immense pressure of keeping his fury under wraps. The Joker looked at him inquisitively, his eyes widened with astonishment and his mouth popped together in an ‘O’ shape, looking back at the audience. He stayed like this for a moment, and for a split second his teeth gritted together to stretch into a brief smile, his eyes lighting up and dancing, eager to point out his hypocrisy. He quickly turned back to the White Knight.

_Oh Harvey… You make this too easy._

The Joker licked the scar on his lower lip.

“Well since you claim to be so ah, _eager to die..._ I suppose you wouldn’t mind knowing _what the threat of death feels like,_ would you?”

He spoke with a speed so fast, it bode for the instinct of alarm. Harvey Dent widened his eyes.

_Whiz!_

Harvey Dent stumbled backwards as he saw something sharp fly past his face, and made a connecting clanking noise with the floorboard, embedding itself deep into its rough wooden shell. It flew from behind the dark curtains, landing in front of the table of Magistrates. Harvey Dent held a hand to his chest to calm his heart rate, with his jaw hung agape and his eyes widened in distress. The Joker skipped forward, looking extremely unnatural as a grown man attempting to look like a little flower girl. Everyone backed their chairs up, unknowing as to how to react. Murmurs and sounds of terror could be heard. Gordon stood up and yelled at the Joker, ready to seize him up again.

“Enough of your impudence, you’ve crossed the line!” 

He groaned and rolled his eyes.

“ _Arrrgh!_ _Relax,_ it’s a part of my act.”

He said quite matter-of-factly, as if it was an unwarranted reaction to be so concerned with his possession of a knife. He retrieved the blade from the ground, a cheap dagger he played around with in his hands. As he trudged back to Harvey Dent, Gordon was about to leap over the table, and so was Bruce, as Sakura observed, but the Joker merely carelessly shoved the knife into Den’t hands. Gordon and Bruce Wayne deflated back in their seats, mouths ajar from confusion as they watched the series of events unfold. The rest of the Magistrates hesitantly shifted their chairs forward again. The White Knight just stared at the knife thrusted in his hands, his brows furrowing. The clown smacked his lips impatiently.

“Well what are you _waiting_ for? Throw it.”

Harvey Dent shook his head, completely dumbfounded. The Joker looked at him, then a moment of realisation dawned upon him. He comically pursed his lips together.

_“Oh.”_

He enunciated, overstressing his vowels. He then brought his fingers between his lips to whistle shrilly.

And all at once, the beautiful antiquated velour curtains dropped from the metal structures supporting them and pooled at the ground. Everyone was in awe at what they were looking at. A large canvas blotted with inks in random splotches of brown and tawny and sepia shades. The sheer scale and magnitude of it was astounding. The man outdid himself. He devoted so much energy into it that the painting came to life. Sakura’s green eyes were glossy in amazement. She murmured to herself. She recognized this painting.

“It’s… the map of Essex Massachusetts.”

She was never one to forget her endeavors in her academic fervour. Bruce Wayne smirked.

“Thanks for pointing out the obvious, captain.”

“Shut up. I bet you didn’t know that.”

The edges of each divided district in the land was painted with a fine brush, beautiful ruffles like a crumpled autumn leaf. Those jagged edges, visually, were him entirely. It was said that every piece of art made imparts a fraction, whether partially or in its entirety, of the artist inside of it. His life force and soul was practically breathed into an otherwise ordinary depiction of a map. He devoted himself to his craft. It was imbued with his essence. And the waterways were painted on, albeit in a less detailed fashion. Gordon shook his head and sighed under his breath.

“He’d better have a good reason for burning through the budget.”

While his crew dragged the velvet curtains away, the Joker looked at Harvey Dent expectantly, as if _this_ development was somehow supposed to make everything crystal clear to him. He sighed and groaned, twitching his lips.

“We gotta explain _everything_ ourselves… _Don’t we?_ Harvey Dent. Your job is to mark _every_ single spot on the map we have ransacked. With the knife.”

He swayed along as he explained, his eyes lighting up in amusement as he swung his arms around freely.

“ _Go on,_ impress your little _squeeze_ with your knife-throwing… Can’t be _that_ hard now can it?”

Harvey Dent narrowed his eyes at the Joker, lowering his gaze onto the knife. He thought for a while, then heaved his hand perpendicularly beside his head, and flung it to the canvas. Everyone gasped as they watched the knife spin vigorously. Harvey held his breath, and watched as it hit the bottom of the canvas with its hilt and dropped to the ground unceremoniously with a clattering noise. Chuckles could be heard around the room, the loudest one being from the Joker himself.

“You missed a target _that big?”_

Indignantly, Harvey Dent could be seen turning a light shade of red as his jaw clenched. The clown waved his hand at him dismissively, almost like he was swatting him away. His jest bubbled down as his face contorted in laughter simmered down to a taunting smile.

“Yeah... this wouldn’t cut it. Now _bugger_ off my stage.”

His demeanor quickly shifted to a cold one. The White Knight of Salem stormed off the stage in a petty fit of anger. The Joker turned around and looped a leg over his supporting one, teetering his weight about. He stared at the audience, his posture looking grisly as his head craned forward with his upper back hunched. He had to have suffered migraines from how unhealthy and malformed his posture seemed. He stared behind Sakura, and he nodded his head ominously.

Sakura’s heart lurched, and she expected the unexpected. Excitement blossomed in her stomach and she desperately wanted to be wowed.

Unexpectedly, the sounds of objects cutting through the air from different directions of the room and flying at dangerously fast speeds could be heard. Sakura heard the knife travel right beside her ear and her eyes widened, her heart beating fast in her chest. The knives landed in the center surrounding the Joker, blades sunken deep into the floor. 

He looked… _enchanting,_ in the most macabre sense. 

He basked in the glory of knives flying straight at him, unafraid, looking death in the eye. His green hair flailed behind him like a lion’s mane, and his deathly makeup made him look even more fearless. He stared ahead unbothered with his gigantic black eye sockets, licking his lips. He cared not whether he died performing his art if it meant putting on a show, if it meant scaring people, if it meant receiving any kind of reaction, or invoking any sort of emotional response. She longed to live life on the edge as he did, but she who was a coward could only live precariously through the lens of others, and he truly was the fool as goad to the wise, the one man who dared to do unspeakable things that others would not.

John Blake and Ino yelled commands of authority and reprimandments as they seized and apprehended the crew who stood behind the Magistrates, who managed to sneak past them in the dark.

_So this is what it feels like._

Sakura was in a daze, her glassy eyes glazing over.

“I’m gonna need you guys to uh, give me the _answers.”_

He pulled the knives from the ground, shuffling about with his feet as the audience was silent. No one dared to speak on matters so… taboo. When it potentially meant going against the Puritan Law.

“We haven’t got _all day,_ y’know.”

He gave them a lazy look. Sakura stood up. Her fiery eyes connected with the Joker’s. He returned her with an impassive expression, half-lidded and a grunt of indifference. As if he expected nothing out of the ordinary with her. As if she wasn’t worth his time, that she _couldn’t_ say anything to impress him. To this she snarled. Her voice was strong and unwavering.

“The Naumkeag’s West of us. We’ve defiled their tribe.”

The Joker’s lips twitched into the hints of a light smirk. She would have missed it if it weren’t for the red paint laced over his web of scars, which exaggerated every little muscular movement in his face. Harvey Dent gave her a questioning glare, daring her to give in to the clown's nonsense even more than she already did.

“Your kind _answers_ and _honesty_ are very much… appreciated, _doll.”_

With their eyes connected, it felt like a small eternity where time stood still. They spent a moment like that in their own little world acknowledging each other. For once, in that small time frame of their brief exchange, she felt that she could understand him. She held her breath at the nickname he endowed upon her. _Doll._ She shivered. His knowing look told her everything. She couldn’t write him off as a pure deranged criminal. There was more to him than that.

He turned his back to the audience and with a heavily rooted stance with one foot in front, he looked striking as he swung his arm back beside his head, his hold on the knife expert as he lunged forward and flung the knife with a grace unseen before from the clown and his oafishness. The spin of the knife slowed down dramatically and it landed perfectly at the bottom left hand corner of the map, its blade elegantly driven into the board. 

He turned around awaiting a new answer, cupping his gloved hand beside his ear. Sakura was about to give another answer, but Rachel Dawes stood up and voiced out before she could. She was confident and poised.

“The Aberginians of Peabody.”

This was out of the blue, and Sakura turned to observe Rachel, seeing that she had a coy smile on her face while everyone started to look at her. Harvey Dent was outraged and confused. He shook his head in disbelief as he stared at his lady. The Joker turned back and aimed his knife for North-West of Salem. The knife made a dull noise on impact, landed perfectly onto the town of Peabody. Before he could turn back to ask for a new answer, a voice that was even more unanticipated dawdled out, slurring slightly.

“The ah... Pennacook? I believe? At Danvers.”

The Joker swiftly snapped his head to face the sound of the voice. He studied the man coldly. It appeared even some things were out of the witty man’s calculations.

“ _Needless to say…_ Did _not_ expect a correct answer coming out of your mouth, _Brucie-boy._ Have got to hand it to ya.”

Sakura studied the Wayne heir. This was getting even more confusing for her. The Wayne’s were supposed to be the ones causing all this destruction. It did not benefit them one bit to give into this madman’s games. _Then why… Why are you humouring him?_

He mercilessly flicked his dagger North of Salem. It seemed he had run out of knives. The audience stirred, heads were turning to look at each other. 

" _Ah-tatta._ You didn't think that would be all, did you?"

He stuffed his hand into his trench coat and reached into his pocket, to reveal one last glinting dagger which had a suspicious sheen with a red hilt.

John Blake’s eyes widened, and Gordon cursed. 

“That fiend managed to sneak the contraband under our radar.”

He addressed the audience, pacing about sinisterly. His steps had a rhythm to them which may lead one to think he was dancing. He walked towards the table, not stepping beyond his boundaries. He stopped in front of Jonathan Crane, and Crane felt the tugging fingers of apprehension at his spine. Once again the audience felt as if they were being held hostage. Gordon was one step away from throwing him down.

“You see… A _wise man_ once described me as a man who just... _wanted_ to watch the world _burn.”_

He nodded and looked up at the audience, his coal eyes felt like bullets to anyone they landed on. He dragged his finger over the sharp edge of the knife, as if he were deep in thought, as if something bothered him on a visceral level.

“He’s ahh, not _entirely wrong,_ I suppose.”

He regarded Jonathan Crane coldly, as they eyed each other, staring each other down. Everyone stared in confusion. Why he had singled out Jonathan Crane was beyond their comprehension. Crane was wealthy, but kept a low profile. The Joker would have no reason to pick on him. It almost seemed to be a battle of egos, as Jonathan Crane sneered at him. The clown’s lips tightened together, swiping his tongue out to wet them.

“Except I am not only a man...”

He snatched Jonathan Crane’s cigar from his hands, that also fit snugly between his lips and scampered carelessly, like a free child, back to centerstage. Crane immediately became furious, and glared icicles of condescension at the man.

“You’re pushing it, _freak.”_

The Joker started cackling with his gravel toned voice.

“I am but _every man and woman_ who sits in this _very room.”_

And as quick as a wink he jabbed the butt of Crane's cigar against the spear point of the dagger and a spark appeared, then a brilliant flame engulfed the blade of the knife, as if it would become one of the greatest blazes in history, like a switchblade of yellow heat. Sakura felt her stomach sink back into her bottom of her core. She was once reminded again that this man was terrifying and awful. He was absolutely _rotten._

In an instant, he hurled the knife and the flames leapt like an uncaged tiger into the night, a living wall of yellow flame, as it burst into the canvas rampantly like a screen of fire that came to life. 

Time seemed to slow down for Sakura as she watched on, hearing his incessant chuckles as he stood magnificently below the burning canvas being swallowed by the licks of the flames, the light making the colours on him seeming even more vibrant and manic. The essence of man was in his entirety, glorious, breathtaking. His grating cackles seemed to light the fires even more alive, and he was the catalyst. He looked up at his monument, his head thrown back like a wild mutt in pleasure and his hands reaching up as if he could grasp hold of it, even if it stood much taller than he did. His face was contorted in pure ecstasy and convulsions, his nose scrunched and his cheeks stretched wide to the point that it hurt in his smile.

_You can only find truth in destruction._

_Don’t you want to be free?_

It was as if he… wanted the burning mass to fall onto him. He was a self-destructive artist. He would give his all into his endeavors, even his life. He truly did not fear death. He sacrificed and devoted his entire being in his pursuit of meaning. That sickened her to no end.

_Where is your sense of self-preservation?_

She gritted her teeth.

Gordon tackled him down and the flame on the cigar was snuffed. The table of Magistrates all prepared to leave the courtroom and scrambled to their feet. The crewmates all rushed forth with buckets of water and doused the canvas and all at once the light in the room returned to its dim, mellow glow. The Joker could be heard whining about how they ruined his ‘masterpiece’, while John Blake reshackled his wrists behind his back while his face was pressed into the floor.

Sakura was disgusted by him. She hated him for endangering the lives of the people in the courtroom. She abhorred and loathed him for being ahead of the world. He knew far too much for his own good. This world could not endure the existence of a bright and over-inquisitive, meddlesome man like him. He discussed matters in Pandora’s box best left unopened. He was a madman. A pure lunatic whose ideas would only be rejected by the world. Civilisation tolerates only one small change at a time. And Salem was no exception.

The rest of the Magistrates gushed about in their disorder frantic with distraught, an upheaval of courtroom-abiding behaviour. Rachel clung onto Harvey and Timothy Wayne was guarded by Bruce. Crane remained relatively calm but his eyes were in a frenzied state of shock. Ino had gone to help the jailor in maintaining order. Sakura clenched her jaw as she watched them drag his form across the coarse wooden floor. She tongued her inner cheek. She reached into her pocket and squeezed the rosary in her grip.

Man’s reach exceeds his grasp. It is a lie; as man’s grasp exceeds his nerve.

This was a grim reminder. Too far gone in chasing the truth can only lead you to the brink of insanity.

_Fear enlightenment and live your lies. That’s fine by me._

He who eats the forbidden fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil is exiled from the Garden of Eden. She must not lose herself in pursuit of slaking that intense thirst for the truth. 

He was _lost in the abyss._ He cannot be rescued.

She refused to look at him any further. She stopped herself.

He’s lost his way.

Despite all that she thought of him, it didn’t stop him from being beautiful.


End file.
